Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
The three of them spin around at the creak of the hinges to find me standing in the doorway, gun in hand. The look of utter horror printed on their painfully young faces is almost comical, but laughing would ruin everything. "Now," I growl, taking my time as I look the three of them up and down. "Do you mind explaining what you're doing in my garage?"
"Oh, shit," the lock picker moans. "Don't kill us, man. Please. We were just messing around."
The tallest of the three nods while his chin trembles like he's about to cry. "We didn't take anything! I swear, we're just—"
"You were just, what?" I bark, making them jump. "Breaking and entering? Because that's what you just did, and I watched you do it. What are you doing out this early in the morning? Don't you have anywhere better to be on a Saturday?"
The three of them exchange guilty looks before they shrug. No, they have nowhere better to be. Did I at their age? "What were you really going to do?" I tuck the gun into my waistband, then flip the light switch for a better look at them. Their jackets are old and worn, and all three of them could use a haircut and new sneakers. "Answer me. What were you hoping to find in here?"
"I don't know," the tallest of the three mutters. He seems like the leader—the other two almost duck behind him. "Tools we could sell? Stuff like that."
"All three of you could get jobs around here, you know? Bagging groceries, yardwork, that sort of thing. And there's the rec center, too. I know they could help you find jobs if that's what you want."
They scoff in unison. "Who wants to work?"
I have to laugh, because I remember feeling that way. "It's better than ending up in juvenile hall for breaking into a garage where there's nothing you could use. It was a stupid thing to do, and the three of you don't seem stupid. Just too dumb to know better. All you wanna do is ride around the neighborhood and cause trouble. I get it. I was like you."
"Romero! Don't!" "It's not worth it," I mutter, pushing the memories far back, but not far enough. There's no such thing as far enough.
"What are you going to do?" the smallest of the three asks in a painfully soft voice.
"I'm gonna let you go this time." They sag a little in relief. "But you're going to go next door to Mrs. Cooper's, and you're going to apologize for fucking up her flower bed. And you're gonna ask her if she needs you to go to the store or do anything else for her, and you're going to do whatever she tells you. I shit you not, if I check with her and she never saw you, things will get a lot worse. I've seen you little shits riding around enough that I could pick you out of a crowd. Understood?"
Their heads bob up and down, eyes like saucers, and I step outside and wait for them to follow me. "I mean it," I growl as they run down the driveway. "I'm going to check with her tomorrow. She better give me the answer I'm looking for."
Who am I to be telling kids what to do? They're half my age, if that, and I don't have any more answers than them. I still wake up from nightmares woven together by memories of things that happened years ago. I still try to run away from those memories during my waking hours. This is only the second time I've been out to the garage since I got here, the first being the day I took Tatum out on the bike.
Looking inside at the boxes I packed, I know why. I was lying when I told Tatum I had never been back since the night I left. I came back once, just once, under the cover of darkness. It was a few days after Mom died, and I didn't want some stranger going through her stuff and deciding what they thought was worth keeping and what should be thrown away. I didn't let myself wander slowly through painful memories – I wanted it over with. I was glad Callum was with me to keep me focused.
Now I look at those boxes and think about the life of a woman who never saw her son again, and had to pretend she didn't know where he was — at least, that's what I assume since no one ever came looking for me. She kept our secret the way I did. It was the least I could do for her.
I wander over to the stack against the wall and run my hand over the cardboard. Photos, mostly, plus a few of the things she loved. A baby book she started but never finished. Scrapbooks. She was into that for a while. Her high school yearbook. This is all I have left of her.